


Take The Long Way Home

by Insomnia_Productions



Series: The Rat Revolution (Mat/Rand Drabbles) [16]
Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Accidental Warder Bond, Adventure, Childhood friends to strangers to friends to lovers, Elayne is like 500x more tolerable when she's with Aviendha so why not, F/F, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Pirates, Primarily cauthor but there will be elayne/avi scattered through a few chapters just bc, Rand and Galad bein BROS bc yes please, Rand gets to live out his Jain Farstrider fanboy dreams, The Band of the Red Hand as pirates, also Rand and Berelain being bros bc we need more of that hello, and apparently this - the fun-adventure-times pirates au - is that fic, but only like 5 of them bc I can't remember everyone's personalities, except at sea bc im an oceancore dweeb, look I had to do a fic that gets into the aftermath of the Tylin thing eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:20:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28503633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insomnia_Productions/pseuds/Insomnia_Productions
Summary: Rand is a sheepherder-turned-lord struggling to live up to the expectations of his new family.Mat is the accidental captain of a pirate crew, hell-bent on running from something he refuses to give name to.They have nothing in common. Nothing... save for the strange tugging at the back of their heads, and a feeling that there is something missing, something they have forgotten.Or, the Cauthor Pirates AU exactly no one asked for, featuring ocean shenanigans, magic islands, and irresponsible use of saidin.
Relationships: Aviendha/Elayne Trakand (Background), Rand al'Thor/Mat Cauthon, a smidgen of Berelain/Galad for flavor
Series: The Rat Revolution (Mat/Rand Drabbles) [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1415056
Comments: 9
Kudos: 23





	1. and aren't we all alone

There was no other music like the song of the sea, Mat thought. He wasn't quite sure what the thought meant, or if it meant anything at all, but it sounded grand, and that was what really mattered, in the end. It was a good line. He folded it away for later use and tilted his head. Golden sunrays burned against his skin. It was a good sort of burn, the burn of the sun. Mat had learned, lately, that very few things that burned were the good sort. Most were entirely the opposite. Fire, for one. And fabric. And shame. 

He opened his eyes. The sun blazed white against a cloudless sky; with two fingers, Mat jerked the brim of his hat back down, blinking back the lights that danced in the corners of his eyes. The horizon opened out in front of him; over the rim of the crow’s nest, he could see the clear blue waters beneath. A faint white spray curled like mist over the surface, kicked up by the wind. Mat could smell it, all that salt, all mixed up with the earthy scent of wood. The smell of home. The smell of freedom. 

_ Lady Luck _ creaked beneath him, a symphony of straining rope, and wood crooning under the water. The waves made whispers as they crashed against the sides of the ship. Somewhere in the distance, to the south, a seagull called out to no one. Maybe that was what it was, Mat thought. The song of the sea. That, and Thom’s tinny old flute, and the men’s hands clapping, and the low rumble of Talmanes’ singing, and the patternless tapping of Olver’s bare feet, dancing on the deck. A smile tugged at his lips. If that was the song of the sea, then, yes, there really was nothing like it. Though whether that was a good or bad thing… well. 

“Mat?” 

Speak of Shai’tan and he shall appear. Mat looked up as a tuft of brown hair and two extremely unfortunate ears poked over the rim of the crow’s nest. 

“Mat?”

“Hello, Olver.” 

Wide dark eyes peered at him. At nine years of age, Olver was slightly too small to comfortably look into the nest without climbing in. Mat was struck with the distinct image of the boy hauling himself up on the edge, legs dangling helplessly beneath, and bit back a chuckle. 

“Thom wants to talk to you.” 

Mat’s good mood dissipated. This again. “That’s unfortunate.” 

“Um…” Olver squinted at him. “Are you coming down, Mat?”

“Not yet.” 

“Oh. He really wants to talk to you.”

“That,” Mat said, “is his problem.” 

Olver snickered. “I’ll tell him so, Mat.” 

“Thank you, Olver.” 

Olver gave a short, wobbly salute, and disappeared. Mat turned his gaze to the horizon. If he squinted, he could just make out the continent, a faint blue mass, just a shade apart from the sky. The Something hummed as if in happiness as he traced the outline of the distant land. It tugged gently, prodding him towards the Westlands. But then, The Something at the back of his head was always tugging vaguely towards the Westlands. And Mat was not in the business of listening to strange Somethings he could not explain, even ones he had carried with him for as long as he could remember. 

“Mat.” 

Mat sighed. “What.” 

Thom climbed into the crow’s nest, his gleeman’s cloak draped over the side. “You know what, lad.” 

“Not yet.” 

“This week marks the year.” His bushy white brows furrowed. “One year since we last touched land.” 

“I know.” 

“We can’t stay at sea forever. Supplies are running low. Even your stash is growing sparse, I know that much.” 

“I don’t have a stash,” Mat said evenly. Light, how did Thom know about that? Did the whole Band know? What was the point in having a secret emergency stockpile if everybody knew about it? 

Thom’s eyes creased at the corners. He studied Mat, and opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “Mat, whatever happened…” Mat tensed, and Thom shook his head abruptly. “Well… never mind that now. The point is, we have to dock somewhere. We don’t have a choice, lad.” 

The trouble was, Thom was right. Burn the old man and his eyebrows—but he was right. They’d be out of food within the next couple of months, and the men were growing weary of the sea. And it  _ had _ been a year. There was no reason why they shouldn’t dock, just for a few days, at least. And yet. Mat closed his eyes. 

“Food and supplies,” Thom pressed. “And drinking. And dancing. You cannot tell me you haven’t missed that.” 

A smile flashed across Mat’s face, gone as quick as it had appeared. True, that. He’d missed the taverns of Tear, and Illian, and Tanchico. He reckoned they’d missed him, too. Or maybe they hadn’t. He had a tendency to flush them of all their money, after all. He and his dice. He opened his eyes to Thom’s knowing smile, and sighed. 

“Fine. Mayene. It’ll take three months from here.” 

“Illian. It’s faster.” 

Mat shook his head. Too close. “Tear,” he compromised. 

Thom hesitated, then relented. “Very well. Tear.” He looked towards the continent. “Two months to land.” 

“Two months to land,” Mat echoed softly. 

Thom glanced at him. Something gentle gleamed in his eyes, a look on his face like he was about to start a conversation Mat didn’t want to have. Mat stood, grabbed a loose rope, and swung down to the deck. “Talmanes!” 

“Captain?” 

“Set a course for Tear.” 

“We’re going back?” Olver materialized by his side, practically vibrating in place as he bounced alongside Mat. “We’re going back on land?” 

Mat didn’t respond. The ship creaked as Talmanes spun the wheel, the helm turning towards the land. The sails flared; even the wind seemed determined that they should hurry back to harbor. Behind them, the open ocean stretched, limitless, free. Mat faced the continent and tried not to think of anything at all. 

* * *

There was no other sensation like the scent of ancient books, and the texture of old browned pages, and a midafternoon sun through tall windows, Rand thought. There was something comforting about it. There was something comforting about libraries. He trailed appreciative fingers along the spines of the leather bound tomes lining the shelves. They came away covered in fine dust. Rand wiped the dust absentmindedly on his coat, and then grimaced. He looked down at the four grey tracks marring the brilliant red silk. Seven years. Seven years, and still, he could not break these habits. Elayne would scalp him if she saw he’d done it again. He wondered if he could blame it on Perrin’s dogs. 

Rand pulled two new books from the shelf, holding them carefully away from his clothes—apparently, as he’d been informed by Elayne two days ago, holding them close to his chest, like he usually did, made wrinkles in the silk. He walked on quiet feet to the front desk and placed the books down. Loial looked down at the covers and smiled, big ears twitching in their strange way. 

“More?”

“More.” 

Loial shook his head as he noted the titles in his ledger, a low chuckle rumbling through his body. “You’ll wear yourself out of all these quest stories someday, Rand.” 

Rand grinned. “Me? Never.” 

It had been at least fifteen years since he’d read his first—a tale of mysticals islands and fantastical creatures—and he had yet to tire of them. And the libraries in Caemlyn were leagues more extensive than those of Emond’s Field. It was one of the few points of favor he was willing to hand the capital over his childhood home. 

“Oh, before you go,” Loial said as Rand picked up his books. He rummaged around beneath the desk and produced an old tome that looked vaguely crumbly around the edges. “It’s about channeling. I thought it might help you with that… strange-tugging-at-the-back-of-your-head. Thing.” 

Rand blinked. “Oh, really?” He studied the book. The cover revealed nothing; whatever title it had once had had long been rubbed off by too many fingers. “Where did you find it?”

“In the pit,” Loial said cryptically. Only it was not so cryptic, if you knew Loial. The man spent days of his life at a time holed up in the annals of the library, in the backroom affectionately referred to as ‘the pit’, sifting through ancient scrolls. He was building a compendium, he said, of historical information about tree lichens. And he said Rand would get tired of quest books. 

“Well, thank you, Loial.” Rand picked up the old book. “I’ll see if it helps.”

Loial’s ears twitched again. “Let me know if you find out anything interesting.” 

“I will,” Rand promised, and slipped the book beneath the others under his arm. 

Oh. Right. The coat. Well, it was too late now. Rand stepped into the warm afternoon glow, listening to the soft high birdsongs that filled the early spring air. Frost still clung to the rooftops as he strolled back through the city, but it was getting warmer by the day. Soon he would not have to worry about silk coats at all. Rand stepped through the gates of House Damodred. It was quiet, as he liked it. He made his way to the courtyard in the center of the manor and settled down between the roots of the old oak tree. It was terribly overgrown, branches sticking out this way and that, curving in arches to the ground, and it made the courtyard impossible to clean. Galad had wanted to cut it for years, but it reminded Rand of home, so it stayed. 

“Someday I hope you will think of House Damodred as home,” Galad had said, the first time they’d spoken about it, but he had never brought up cutting the tree again. 

Rand hadn’t expected such kindness from his half-brother, when he’d first been brought to this place seven years ago, just shy of fourteen and newly aware that his ancestry was not what he had believed it to be. What was Rand, after all, other than a reminder that Galad’s mother had abandoned him? And neither of them looked like Tigraine; they had not even a commonality of appearance to bind them. But Galad, Rand had learned, did nothing by halves, and family, to him, was as sacred as the Light. 

Shrouded between the roots, Rand propped open the first book and began to read. He had just reached a particularly fascinating battle scene, and was in the midst of attempting to replicate the protagonist’s complicated Air weaves, when a triumphant shout caught his attention. 

“I told you we would find him here,” Elayne declared smugly. 

Behind her, Gawyn rolled his eyes. “Astute, Elayne. He’s  _ always _ here, you hardly solved a great mystery.” 

Elayne tossed her head, golden curls swishing over her shoulder. Her red shawl matched Rand’s coat. Rand wondered if that was on purpose. He stood up, bowing his head to his friends and his half-brother as they approached him. They had a strange relationship, the four of them. Galad was Rand’s half-brother, and Gawyn’s, but Rand and Gawyn had no relation but for the close political ties of their families. And Elayne… 

Elayne let out a strangled gasp, jolting Rand out of his thoughts. Her hand flashed out to grab his coat, and she sniffed. “You’ve done it again. I cannot leave you alone for a minute, Rand.” 

Rand tugged the fabric out of her hands. “It’s only dust.”

“It’s only dust,” Elayne muttered. She tossed her head again. “Well, no matter. You need a new one anyway.” 

“A new one?” Rand frowned. “Why, what’s wrong with this one?”

Elayne opened her mouth, but Gawyn cut her off, eyes wide and tone pitched just slightly higher than usual. “Why, Rand, how could you ask such a foolish question! Because that coat is last season’s cut, simply not good enough to be seen in high society!” 

Elayne twitched her shawl in a swift, jerky movement, elbows jutting into Gawyn’s ribs, a smidge too forceful to have been an accident. “ _ Because _ , you woolheads, we’ve been invited to a ball, and I simply will not be seen with any member of my entourage dressed in _ last year’s  _ fashion.” 

“You gave him that coat not three months ago!” Gawyn protested. 

“He needs a new one,” Elayne insisted solidly. They both turned to Galad, who only gave a twitch of a smile. 

“If Elayne wishes to gift Rand another coat, that is her right.” 

Gawyn snorted. “Just because he looks good in them.” Elayne’s cheeks reddened, and Gawyn suddenly yelped, hands flying to his head. “Ow—! I thought you weren’t supposed to sneak-attack your family! That must be against that honor code of yours.” 

“What Aviendha doesn’t know can’t hurt her,” Elayne grumbled, but she shuffled back, looking chagrined. She was obsessed with the principles of  _ ji’e’toh  _ lately, a consequence of a years’ training in the spears with Aviendha. Aviendha had, consequently, become the group’s safeword; they invoked her name to cool Elayne’s head and temper her tendency to channel at them whenever they annoyed her, which was often. 

“A ball?” Rand asked, redirecting the conversation. 

Elayne nodded. “At the Stone of Tear. All the great noble families will be there, so we are, of course, expected to attend. You as well, Rand, so don’t even think of trying to get out of it. You’re as much part of the Trakand-Damodred business as the rest of us.” 

Rand suppressed a sigh. He hadn’t expected any different, really. Something of what she’d said caught his attention. “The Stone? Of  _ Tear _ ?”

“The ball is in two months,” Galad explained. “We leave in one.” 

“Plenty of time to teach you proper Tairen ball etiquette,” Gawyn grinned, with a glance at his sister. 

“Tairen ball etiquette,” Rand echoed faintly. “As opposed to Andoran ball etiquette?”

“Of course,” Elayne sniffed, with a critical eye on his books, discarded between the tree roots. “You might try reading something  _ useful _ , the amount of time you spend with your nose in those books.” 

“Jain Farstrider’s not useless,” Rand muttered, affronted, but Elayne was already walking away, delivering a veritable soliloquy on coats and fine manners. 

Gawyn laughed, clapping Rand’s shoulder with a calloused hand. “You’ll be fine, Rand. The conventions really aren’t all that different.” His grin widened, eyes glinting as he spun on his heel and sauntered away, calling over his shoulder, “I’m sure Elayne will take care of you.” 

Rand sighed. Balls and parties with the great noble families of the realm… it was his duty, just as attending trade deals was his duty, just as studying the economic history of the continent was his duty, all in service of supporting Galad as his coming-of-age day approached, the day when Morgase would finally hand her late husband’s inheritance over to Taringail’s firstborn son. Rand was not heir to anything, except expectations. 

Galad looked at him, brows furrowed minutely. “Are you alright?” he asked again, and hesitated. “If you really wish it, I am sure Morgase will not object to your staying behind. There are other duties you can fulfill if you stay in Caemlyn… and the ball is not on our estate, so you have fewer obligations to attend it.” 

Rand shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment before mustering a smile for his half-brother. “No, I’ll come. I do have obligations, to you, at least. Duty is heavier than a mountain,” he quoted. 

“Death lighter than a feather,” Galad finished, giving Rand an approving nod. “Very well, then. I am going to make preparations for our journey. Will you join me?”

“Soon.” Rand stooped to collect his books. “In another hour or so.” 

Galad set a hand on his shoulder, and walked back into the manor. Rand watched him go, books to his chest. He waited until a door shut from inside the halls, then turned and walked quickly through the courtyard. Dropping his books on a table in the foyer, he hurried through the gates and down the street, his feet carrying him by muscle memory to the smithy at the end of the road. Perrin was hammering a sword when he walked through the door. Perrin was usually hammering a sword. Dogs swarmed his legs, licking at his hands. Rand smiled, dropping down to scratch at their ears. 

It was another few minutes before Perrin noticed him, and then he startled, pressing a gloved hand to his chest. “Light, Rand! Do you have to be so quiet? You’re like a Fade.”

“I’m not quiet,” Rand said, moving away from the dogs to sit down on an upturned crate in the corner of the room. It took up space, but it was his crate, had been for the last seven years. It was uncomfortable, and the air in the smithy was hot and stifling, but Perrin had come from the Two Rivers, too. Not Emond’s Field, but it was enough. They were each other’s small slice of home. Perrin’s dogs settled around the crate, two of them placing enormous heads in Rand’s lap. Rand suspected that at least three of them were actually wolves. He gave a pointed look at Perrin’s hammer. “You’re just very loud.” 

Perrin pulled a face, setting the hammer down. Peeling off his gloves, he leaned against his worktable. “Well? What is it this time?”

“What?”

“You only visit me these days when you’re worried about something. Out with it.” 

“I don’t,” Rand protested. When Perrin raised both eyebrows, he looked down. “Sorry. I should come by more often. It’s just…”    
  
“Your duty?” Perrin smiled ruefully when Rand grimaced. “Thought so. It’s always duty with you.” He sighed. “But I understand. Galad’s name-day is coming soon.” 

“Less than a year now. And then he’ll be the head of House Damodred.” 

“And you his right hand.” Perrin puffed out a breath, making his curls fly up from his forehead. “That’s a thought. Lord Rand Damodred.” 

“Rand al’Thor,” Rand said. “I only have one father, and I’m not Taringail’s son, anyway.” 

“Lord Rand al’Thor,” Perrin said, and put his hands up when Rand glared at him. 

One of the dogs whined, tail wagging. Rand pat its head absentmindedly. “There’s a ball in Tear in two months,” he explained. “For all the… important trading families.” 

Perrin hummed. “I suppose they’ll want to harangue you with the comments they can’t make to Galad directly.” When Rand nodded miserably, Perrin cracked a small grin. “Good luck. In any case, it’s better to get used to it. This is what Morgase wanted you here for, isn’t it?”

Rand shrugged. “Something like that.” 

Perrin bobbed his head in a nod. One of the wolf-dogs wagged its tail. The silence stretched, glum and heavy. Rand put his head in his hands, already tired from the ball, from all the whispering Ladies and scheming Lords, two months in advance. 

Perrin looked at him. “No one ever said duty would make you happy.” 

“No,” Rand sighed. “I suppose they didn’t.” 

* * *

_ Two boys sit beneath the midnight sky, surrounded by dancing lights. Not more than five years old, with brown-tanned skin, they share matching grins, united in their secrecy and their wonder.  _

_ “Make another one!” one demands.  _

_ The other, the channeler, bobs his head. His friend laughs in delight as another sphere of light appears, drifting down to rest atop the tip of his nose. His brown eyes cross, looking at it.  _

_ “What is it?” _

_ “Spirit,” the channeler says proudly. “It’s the hardest one.”  _

_ “Make it land on my tongue,” his friend says, sticking out his tongue. “Aaaah—”  _

_ The channeler covers his mouth to stifle giggles. He makes another light sphere. His friend shivers when it lands delicately on his tongue, and he gains a gleam in his eyes. The channeler quickly makes the lights disappear before his friend can try to swallow them. He isn’t sure what would happen if a person were to swallow a weave.  _

_ His friend pouts. “I wanted to taste it.”  _

_ “It tastes like Spirit,” the channeler says. “So if it’s your Spirit, it probably tastes gross.”  _

_ His friend pushes him. The channeler pushes back, and is tackled at once. The two boys roll across the ground, so small amidst the trees. When their clothes are thoroughly muddied, they sit up, breathing hard. For a while, the sound of their breath is the only sound for miles.  _

_ The channeler turns to his friend. “I read something else you can do with Spirit. I want to try it with you.”  _

_ The other boy narrows his eyes in clumsy imitation of his mother. “What’s that?” _

_ The channeler crawls closer and leans in, whispering in his friend’s ear. Slowly, his friend’s eyes light up. They share another wide grin.  _

_ “Alright,” the boy says, “alright, try it, then.”  _

_ And he closes his eyes.  _

_ The channeler takes a deep breath.  _

_ Spirit glows between them.  _

  
  



	2. say now, say now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a ~~fated meeting~~

The new coat was exactly the same as the old one. Both were red, both were embroidered in gold. Both were made of silk, handspun, colored with expensive Domani dyes. Both sat uncomfortably against his skin. Rand studied himself in the gold-plated mirror and tried to suppress the urge to pick at the scratchy embroidery. There was no point, he thought, in dressing up like this. The High Lords and Ladies of Tear—not to mention those of Andor, Cairhien, Tarabon, Arad Doman, Altara, and Murandy, and those were just the places he could remember off the top of his head—they had all been born and bred in manors of marble and glass. They would sniff him out as an impostor amongst them the moment he stepped into the room. He might as well be wearing his old Two Rivers wools, for all the good this silk coat would do him.

Not for the first time, he wished Morgase Trakand had never visited Emond’s Field, and then he kicked himself for the thought. He was, in some way, related to the Damodred family—at the very least, he was Galad’s kin—and there was no honor, and no point, in shirking his duties to his kin. Besides, he told himself, it was just this one night. 

Just this one night… and every night after it for the rest of his life. 

Rand sighed, dragging a hand down his face, and the door clicked softly behind him. A silver dress glimmered in the mirror; Rand watched Berelain’s reflection as she picked her away around the stacks of books cluttering the room, coming to stand behind him, lacquered fingernails drumming atop his shoulder. 

“You cannot possibly have read all these already.” 

“We arrived a week ago,” Rand told her. “I’ve had time.” 

Berelain sighed loudly, chest rising and falling. Rand looked away. “And you have spent it locked up in here, haven’t you?” At Rand’s dismal shrug, she gave a huff of laughter. “You cannot show submission to these people, Rand. If you let them cow you, they will eat you alive.” 

“Doesn’t it show more confidence to visit their domain and still behave exactly as I do at home?”

She gave him an exasperated look. “I hope you’re prepared for the ball. I can’t look after you this time. Mayene has its own die to cast in the Game of Houses tonight.” 

“I’ll do my best.” Rand eyed the window. “Unless - do you think anyone would notice if I just…” 

Berelain followed his gaze. “Ran off into the night?” Rand nodded. She nudged his shoulder. “I’d notice. And I suspect a certain Trakand heiress might, too. But if that is what would make you happiest, feel free. I would be more than happy to cover for you.” 

“Oh, is that so?” Rand laughed. “And I suppose your willingness has nothing to do with the fact that my absence would eliminate any risk, however slim, of Galad facing a contender to the Damodred inheritance?” 

“Now you’re thinking like a lord.” Berelain’s smile did nothing to suggest innocence. 

“It’s nice to know that you care so much about my happiness,” Rand said dryly. “Almost as much as you care about Galad’s.” 

Through the mirror, he saw the blush rise on her cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Rand grinned, turning in his seat to look up at her. “The First of Mayene does not often come when Tear calls - not unless she has reasons beyond what she expresses in her acceptance of the invitation.” 

“I could take offense to these accusations, Rand Damodred.” Berelain folded her arms, her face flushed pink. “In fact, I do take offense to them.” 

The way her lips quirked up at the corners gave her away. Rand’s grin widened. “If you talk to my brother, I will manage myself at the ball the way you’ve instructed.”

“If you follow my tutelage at the ball, I may consider speaking with your brother,” Berelain countered. 

“Very well. It’s a deal.”

Berelain only gave him an exasperated look. “I will see you at the ball, Rand. Don’t be late.” 

And with that, she slipped from the room. The door clicked softly shut behind her, and Rand noticed the fine silver dust that trailed along the path she had taken. The whole room smelled faintly like pomegranates. It was comforting, somewhat, the idea that he had friends here. Even so, Galad, Berelain, and the Trakands had their own businesses to attend to tonight; Rand was not technically alone, but wasn’t he, really? 

There was no point getting into a panic about it now. The ballroom doors would open soon, and it would be rude to arrive too late after that. Rand gave himself one final check in the mirror, stood from the vanity, and left the room. 

.

The ballroom was dazzling. It was surprising, although perhaps it shouldn’t have been; the Stone was a fortress, first and foremost, but Tear was hardly known for its pragmatism, and a little flair was only to be expected from so wealthy a nation. The great families of Tear and the High Lords that presided over them had much to show off tonight, and at an event so far-reaching, they would not waste even the slightest opportunity to boast their riches. As for Rand, he began to wish that he really was in his Two Rivers wools. At least then he could have blended in with the servants. 

Elayne and Gawyn had met him at the door, both of them dressed in ruby-red silks with golden lions embroidered over their hearts. Rand’s relief at seeing them had been short-lived: both had vanished within minutes, swept away in conversations with long-lost friends from their year spent studying in the White Tower. He hadn’t seen Berelain since arriving, either, and it had been nearly a day since he’d caught a glimpse of Galad, swamped as his half-brother was with reinforcing the Damodred family’s alliances in Tear. The only people he’d spoken to were the stream of Cairhien lords and ladies that seemed to have taken it upon themselves to interrogate him on the happenings of his household. House Damodred was, after all, originally a Cairhienin line; it was only Taringail’s marriage to Tigraine, and later to Morgase, that had prompted the House’s relocation to Andor, and not a single Cairhienin House wished to see its return. Rand was convinced that the families had organized some sort of rotational schedule to, if nothing else, irritate him into convincing Galad to stay in Andor. And it was working. 

Rand was in the midst of one such conversation—it had taken a baffling turn towards his opinions on Tairen pastries, which Rand honestly had very few strong feelings about, and he suspected that the lord he was conversing with was taking much more out of this conversation than Rand was giving—when he spotted familiar catlike eyes in the crowd. Rand could have cried. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, cutting across whatever the lord was rambling about now, “I think I see my brother. I must greet him. Good evening.” And he walked quickly away, before the lord could say anything more about cream puffs. 

Galad turned as he approached, looking him up and down. “Rand. How are you managing?”

“I’m…” Rand glanced back in the direction of the Cairhienins. They were watching him. He looked back at Galad. “I’m… managing.” He grinned at his half-brother. “How many people have congratulated you on your approaching rise to power?” 

Galad hummed, a smile curling his lips. “How many people have congratulated you on your approaching engagement?” 

Rand’s grin fell. He looked away, and his eyes caught on Morgase and Elayne, conversing in the corner. His stomach felt twisted up in knots. He forced his gaze back to Galad. “None yet, but the night is still young.” He sighed. “Mostly, the Cairhienins don’t want us returning to their country any time soon.” 

Galad frowned. “Hmm. I’ll speak with them myself, I am sure we can work something out.” He placed a hand on Rand’s shoulder, giving him a reassuring smile. “You’re doing well, Rand. Don’t worry.” 

Rand dredged up a smile in return, and Galad walked away, disappearing in moments within the crowd. Rand looked around the room, and felt that he could see his whole future laid out in front of him. This was it, wasn’t it? The same people, the same ballgowns, maybe a different venue, maybe different questions. Maybe next year, or the year after, they would be asking him about Elayne instead of about Galad. It was a good future: the son of two of Westland’s most powerful households, the leader of neither, aiding them without bearing the full weight of their titles. It was a future of comfort and security. And it wasn’t as if he disliked Elayne. It was a good future, and it should have made him happy, but somehow all he felt was wrong. Wrong in this place, wrong in these clothes, wrong in the way that something still tugged at the back of his head, like he wasn’t quite whole yet, like there was some piece of him he had yet to find. 

The air in the Stone was hot and thick with perfume, the scent of Tairen oils dizzying as lords with pointed beards crisscrossed around him. As the end of the night drew near, Rand slipped from the ballroom and began to walk. He walked through the city, through the cool night air, the rain-slicked streets staining his boots, mud splattering the ends of his coat. He walked past inns and taverns and ships docked at the harbor, until he found himself standing on a cliff, looking out over a small cove, and, beyond it, the open ocean. The tugging at the back of his head had grown stronger, almost like a presence, like a small warm mass curled up inside his skull. It pulled him towards the ocean; Rand stepped closer to the edge, and closer, looking out at the waves. If he could find that missing piece… if he could just know what it was that he had lost—for he felt sure, somehow, suddenly, that this strange missing mass was something he had lost… 

Rand’s feet touched the cliff’s edge. Without warning, the dirt crumbled, the ground opened up beneath him. He fell. 

* * *

Thom was right, he had _missed_ this. 

The air in the tavern was dense with ale and music, and Mat could scarcely feel his feet, so light they felt as he twirled a lithe young man across the floor. He didn’t know where these steps had come from, no more than he could point to any book or scroll for the adventures that unfurled in his head. Sometimes it seemed he just woke up and there would be a map in his head or a new dance in his feet. Not that Mat was complaining. People—namely, his mother—said that all play and no work was the mark of a woolhead most supreme, but Mat had never paid much mind to what people—namely, his mother—said. 

The music changed. The man in his arms flashed him a wide, bright smile, and let go. Mat spun, and found his new partner in a woman—one of the tavern maids, he realized, the one who had slipped him an extra mug of ale earlier in the night, with a wink and a smile that promised more than free alcohol. She gave him the same smile as the music started up again, and it was easy to return her grin. It was easy to dance with her, featherlight in his arms. It was easy to let her pull him into the storeroom at the back of the tavern. It was easy, and this was fine. 

The room was small, barely a few paces across, made smaller by her proximity. The music played outside the cracks in the wooden door. Her body pressed against his. He could feel her heat through the thin layer of clothes between them, and this was fine, too. This was fine. She backed him into the wall, pressing her lips to his. Something shifted inside him, something cried out. He pushed it down and kissed her back, harder, one hand finding her waist, the other moving to weave his fingers through her hair. And then he felt it. The touch of silk, thin and smooth. Ribbons. 

Suddenly the girl was on the other side of the small room, confusion twisting into anger on her flushed face. She opened her mouth. 

“Sorry,” Mat forced himself to say, words spilling hurriedly out, before she could speak, before she could ask the question lurking behind her eyes. “It’s - I - it’s past Olver’s bedtime. We have an early start tomorrow.” 

Her eyes narrowed. _“You—”_

“I have to go.” 

He left before she could think to stop him—not that she _could_ have stopped him, he reminded himself, not her—and shoved the door open, stumbling back into the tavern’s main room. Olver was sitting up on a stool, surrounded by serving girls. Mat walked quickly towards him, as quickly as he could pushing through the crowd. Had there always been so many people in here? Had the air always been so thick? He grabbed Olver’s arm, and the boy yelped. 

“Time to go.” 

“But—”

“Now.”

Olver’s expression set, eyebrows drawing down, feet locking around the legs of the stool. Mat scooped him up—he was a scrappy kid, almost weightless—and set him on the ground, and pulled him out of the tavern. Olver twisted back around as the door swung shut, using his free hand to blow a parting kiss to the serving girls. Where he learned these silly habits, Mat would never know. 

The air outside was cold and clear; Mat took a breath, and the heat in his head cooled. The burn around his wrists faded, and vanished with the sound of the music as they passed out of the town, towards the hidden cove where Lady Luck was docked. Mat realized, abruptly, that he was all but dragging Olver along. He stopped. Olver stopped, too, but he didn’t look up. The boy had his eyes fixed on the ground, mouth twisted in a pout. Mat sighed, and moved around to kneel in front of him. 

“Olver?” 

Olver turned away. 

“I’m sorry about that, Olver. I always hated being dragged around like that, with no one stopping to ask what I wanted.” Olver blinked; surprise loosened his frown, and he looked at Mat with cautious eyes. “I know you want to stay here longer… and we will. Next time. Promise.”

“ _Promise_ promise?”

Mat closed his eyes and stood. “Yes.” 

“...Fine.” 

He didn’t sound particularly appeased, but he wasn't throwing a fit, at least. Mat ruffled his hair. As they walked, the cove appeared, a small alcove in the curve of the cliff. Far from the harbor. Far from people. Two rowboats stood on the sand, the midnight water lapping softly against the wood. Mat rowed them back to the ship, and stood at the helm while Olver slinked off to sulk. The wind breezed through his hair like fingers, and Mat closed his eyes, burying his face in his hands. Light, but _why_ was he acting like this—why was he _still_ acting so _strange?_ It was just land, just people, just a tavern, just dancing, just—

Colorful spots bloomed in his vision as he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. It was just a ribbon. And it had been blue. The thought almost made him laugh, but the sound died in his throat, bitter to taste. A woman with dark eyes and blue bloody ribbon. He swallowed back the bile that rose. The Light damn it all. They had their supplies, and men would return before first light. Then they could get out, back to the sea, back to empty fields of blue as far as the eye could see. There would be plenty of drinking and dancing then, on his ship, with his crew. That was enough. 

The moon drifted above, passed along from star to star, across the line of the sky. An hour passed. Then two. Then three. The fourth was drawing to a close before Mat finally raised his head, chin propped on his palm, and cast a glum, sweeping glance across the cove. It was late. How long before Talmanes and the others returned? The sooner they could leave… Mat’s body tensed, reacting to the figure on the cliff before he could register seeing it. His head spun; something sharp twisted at the back of his skull. The _something_ was restless. The tugging was… Mat winced, fingers tightening around the wood of the ship. He stared up at the figure. Why was he standing so close to the edge? Loud footsteps clattered onto the ship behind him, but they were muted, the men’s drunken singing distant, as though far away, under the waves. His lips moved in the silent warning, but still, the figure moved closer to the edge. The something at the back of Mat’s head burned. The figure took another step. 

And then the cliff crumbled, and he fell. 

Mat blinked, and then he was in the water. His mind went empty; all that existed was the something, burning, _tugging_ . Mat swam, black water rushing in his ears. A stone splashed in front of him—debris from the cliff. He turned in place, eyes scanning the waves, but the sea was dark and shadowed, and the dim light of the moon did little to aid his search. But he didn’t need the moon to guide him, did he? Mat took a breath, closed his eyes, and plunged under the water. The something in his head _pulled._ Mat followed it, reaching out with one hand. His skull pounded with the tugging, his lungs burned as he dove deeper and deeper under the waves—and his fingers brushed cloth. And the tugging stopped. 

His crew was yelling when they hauled him back onto the ship. If the cool air hadn’t sobered them up, Mat’s midnight swim must have done the trick. He ignored their fussing, bending over the stranger lying, unbreathing, on his deck. The something in his head was not pulling anymore, but it was cold. It was drowning. Mat placed his hands on the man’s chest and pushed, and pushed, again and again, until suddenly the man’s body convulsed. Water spurted from his mouth. He coughed violently, jerking upright. Mat looked into eyes the color of the moon, and he felt— 

He wasn’t sure what he felt. This was an emotion that had no name. It was something entirely new. 

The man opened his mouth, made a soft, wondering sound, and fell back against the deck. Unconscious. 

“Mat?” Talmanes leaned over him. “Are you alright? What should we…” 

“Lift the anchor,” Mat’s voice said. 

“What?”

“Mat, who is he?” Nalesean asked from somewhere behind him. 

“He’s a noble.” Vanin motioned to the man’s red coat. “That’s Domani silk. I’d wager we’ll get a hefty reward if we return the poor drowned lord to whatever family’s missing him.” 

“No.” The men turned to him. Mat wasn’t sure where his words were coming from, but they felt right, somehow, so he let them come. “He stays. Lift the anchor.”

A hand settled on his shoulder. “Mat…” 

“I’m fine, Thom. It’s just a feeling.” He looked up into the old man’s frown. With those bushy eyebrows knit so close, Mat could barely see his eyes. “Trust me.” 

Thom gave him a helpless shrug. “I trust your luck, lad.” 

Mat summoned a grin for him, then turned to his first mate. “Talmanes. Let’s go.” 

Talmanes nodded. The men dispersed, preparing the ship. Mat remained on his knees by the stranger’s side. He stayed there as the anchor was lifted, as the wheel was spun, as the ship drifted slowly out of the cove. 

The mass in his head had settled into something warm and still, like the placid waters just off the shore. Mat looked at the stranger as the Westlands faded behind them, and wondered what the Pattern had weaved for him this time. 

On the horizon, a new sun was rising. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if you can tell from the uh. tavern scene. but I am HELLA ace and HELLA uncomfortable with writing anything even a little bit sexual so mayhaps "examining the effects of the tylin thing" was a _poor choice,_
> 
> but we're here now and it's too late to backtrack so, uh, have this, I guess, 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and drop a comment if you would like to see more! I'm still working out what the main middle portion of the fic will be - pirate shenanigans and adventuring, mostly, I imagine - so if there's anything in particular y'all would like to see, please let me know!

**Author's Note:**

> NEW YEAR NEW ME NEW RAT FIC
> 
> This time it's pirates and adventure bc I am *this* close to changing my name and running away to live out my ocean-cryptid-core dreams 
> 
> the tags on this are a mess im so sorry 
> 
> In case it got buried in the tags - this fic will be referencing The Tylin Thing. If you know me from AO3 and Tumblr you know that I have Strong Feelings about Tylin and I guess it's time I included my thoughts in a fic. Apparently this is that fic. I'll mostly just be focusing on the aftermath of the events, and it's only one aspect of a story that's more centered around fun and adventure - but, yeah, just a warning if you'd rather avoid that. 
> 
> With that out of the way - DAMN it has been TOO LONG since I wrote a rat fic, but here I am at last, back with a multi chapter! I have chapter 2 written already and I'll post it next week, but after that, I probably won't have a set schedule. I've got a lot of changes going on in my life and I'm trying out this radical new thing called "being fucking nice to myself" (crazy stuff, I know), so I'll work on this whenever I feel like it, which might mean sporadic updates. So please bear with me! 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, and if you liked it, hey, comments are my life fuel. If you wanna talk about cauthor or WoT in general, hmu on Tumblr @insomnia-productions :)


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